In Tune and In Community

Is it possible for me to stay "in tune" at a busy music conference attended by hundreds of people?

Last weekend I checked in on that question again, after side-stepping it for the past few years by simply not attending. I couldn't help thinking of Ray Davies' comment that all performers are introverts as I joined with so many others gathering in the halls, having animated spontaneous conversations and eagerly giving out promo materials.

I kept pace pretty well, but felt a bit relieved that I had only one song to sing. (Here I am, singing it! Many thanks to Shirley Gibson for the photo.) Later, another musician pointed out something that I hadn't fully realized: "Bicycle Bell" is, itself, an affirmation of the "smaller voices" we hear, both in the world and inside ourselves. In the song, I affirm their potential to make positive changes...and yet, in life, I still find myself conflicted.

Did I want to stay up to participate in late-night showcases? No. But did I want to appear as though I was part of the crowd? Yes. Did I want to follow my own star, and express my own truth? Yes. But did I also want to fit in? Yep, that too.

Being an artist provides an opportunity to become aware of our sometimes opposing needs: to distinguish ourselves with our unique vision while also belonging to a larger whole.

Perhaps the thing that can bring both of these needs in tune with each other is the concept of community. If I stay in tune with my inner voice--even at those times when I feel out of step with the majority--I strengthen community by making it more inclusive and diversified.

As Parker Palmer writes in his book "Let Your Life Speak","When we live in the close-knit ecosystem called community, everyone follows and everyone leads."

Thank you to the Ontario Council of Folk Festivals for recognizing "Bicycle Bell" as a Songs From the Heart winner this year in the political category; for hosting a complex and multi-layered conference every year; and for seeking to build community with music and among musicians and presenters.

One Song

This weekend I'm heading to a music conference, where I'm very fortunate to be singing one of my songs in an official showcase setting.

The song is called "Bicycle Bell".

As things have turned out, it's likely to be the only song I sing at the conference...a place where singer-songwriters often try to perform as many songs as many times as possible, so that the highest possible number of professional opportunities might arise.

Playing this one song, once...will it be enough?

It will be, as long as I know that we only ever have "one song". One life, one breath and one moment. Right now.

The idea that one performance must lead to another, and another, and another...it takes us away from truly inhabiting the one song we have.

May I be happy to be singing one song now.

Optimistic Songs in Hard Times

This week I wrote a song in response to the recent Canadian election, for Take5 on CIUT. I billed it as an ironic love song to Stephen Harper. (For readers outside Canada, he's the frosty right-wing politician who will lead a minority government for the second time in a row. Sixty percent of us voted against him, but he remains our Prime Minister.)

The song (which contains the word "frosty") is called "Right Back Where We Started*. (Here's a live version from the radio show on Friday morning.) It's written in the voice of a woman reluctantly returning to a guy she knows isn't good for her. Depressing, right? Cynical? You'd think so, after an election like this.

But the song turned out to be generally happy-sounding. A cheerful little waltz in a major key. I had written an optimistic song, after a disappointing election outcome, during the worst economic crisis of my lifetime. What was I thinking?

Well, first of all, I wasn't really "thinking". Instead I was writing a song, and that's a whole other thing. When you're fully engaged in the creative process, your heart (or soul, or unconscious) is doing most of the heavy lifting, while your brain (intellect, conscious mind) just navigates the process. "Just a few steps more (one more verse, please)...don't bump into the wall (that line has too many syllables)..." That sort of thing.

Once songwriters become truly proficient, they write what they need to hear. Not only what they want to express, but what they need to hear. It's the unconscious mind, the soul, that midwifes into being the needed song, as opposed to the expected or "supposed-to-write" song.

After a week like this, I can tell you that I needed some good news, more than I needed a re-hashing of everything bad. I didn't want to deny what has happened or hide from reality, but I needed to frame that reality in a way that helps me stay sane and productive. Thankfully, the unconscious mind knew exactly what to do.

I'm glad that, without thinking, I wrote a happy song this week.

Its very existence tells me that optimism is still possible.

* A few notes on the lyrics, for anyone not familiar with the Canadian political system. The Prime Minister (Mr. Harper) presides over the deeply divided House of Commons ("...waltzing round the House again"). The space in between opposing parties is called the floor. Members of Parliament often behave badly in the House. ("Hurling names across the floor...") The Leader of the Opposition (only recently installed and likely to step down now) is named Stephane, and though a man of substance and integrity, he has turned out to be very unpopular. I think the rest of the lyrics are self-explanatory. - lh

Stephen Harper: Failed Musician

"Picking up the pieces of my sweet, shattered dream..."

So goes the opening line of Gordon Lightfoot's classic, "Carefree Highway", one of a couple of familiar tunes Stephen Harper played on the piano for the television cameras, to prove that he loves music even as he slashes funding for the arts.

We dismissed his performance as mere media theatrics. But what if it was something else? What if it was actually a longed-for performance opportunity?

Maybe Stephen Harper hates professional artists because he's just jealous.

Let's remember former Ontario Premier Mike Harris for a minute. Harper's sneering at artists has been compared to Mike Harris's contempt for teachers, and his subsequent decimating of education budgets. Now, recall what Mike Harris did as a very young adult (before he became a golf professional and then a politician). Indeed, he went to teacher's college, and then became briefly (that is to say, unsuccessfully) an elementary school teacher.

Writing in her influential book "The Artist's Way" (1992), Julia Cameron calls adults with repressed artistic dreams "shadow artists". She writes "All too often the artistic urges of the artist child are ignored or suppressed. Often with the best intentions, parents try to foster a different, more sensible self for the child...Baby artists are urged to think and act like baby doctors or lawyers [or economists]. ...If encouraged at all, the children are urged into thinking of the arts as hobbies, creative fluff around the edges of real life. For many families, a career in the arts exists outside of their social and economic reality."

Sound familiar? When Stephen Harper talks about "the lives of artists not resonating with ordinary Canadians", what he means is, "that's not how my life worked out". When he imagines artists' lives as a stream of glamourous cocktail parties and television appearances, he's fantastizing about what his life might have been.

His fantasy would be inaccurate, of course. In reality, with a miniscule number of artists actually making a living (or earning any income at all) from their creative life (even if they do get the occasional grant), most of them spend their days as accountants, civil servants, cab drivers, computer programmers and advertising copywriters. In short, their lives are quite ordinary, just like Stephen Harper may secretly believe his to be.

Think of how Stephen Harper looked when he sat down at the airport lounge piano. He displayed that boyishly self-conscious pride we see at open mics, when shy adult songwriters take the stage after years of denying they play.

Wasn't it touching what he said, for the record, for the whole country to hear?

"I had a little bit of talent. I never had enough talent to be a professional, but..."

There it is! The regret! The might-have-beens! And there, too, is the feeling of personal loss and shame. "If only I had been more talented, my music might have amounted to something."

In the Globe and Mail interview, which you can listen to here, he says "I am a shadow of my former self". In fact, that shadow artist still haunts him--and now threatens the cultural sovereignty of our country.

Harper goes on to reflect (with a poignant lack of self-awareness), on how his artistic calling is alive today despite his attempts to banish it. (Note to Mr. Harper: some artists also support themselves as psychotherapists!)

"I've always been torn on music and piano in a way, because I actually get a great deal of satisfaction out of when I do it," he says. "But I get so wrapped up in it. I've always had that problem with the artistic things I've enjoyed doing. [Note the past tense.] You know, I played piano, I've sung a bit, I used to write poetry... [It's as if he's writing his artist c.v.!] ...but I've always found with these kinds of things that they really draw me in and I can't let them go. I find it difficult to do it just a little bit on the side, just a little bit here and now...that's always been my struggle."

Exactly. As a musician at heart, he will always be drawn back to that transporting and transformative creative experience, that place where he feels most alive. "Carefree Highway, got to see you my old flame...let me slip away, slip away on you." Both in his bewildered musing about his abandoned musical life, and in the songs he chooses to play, he expresses an artistic call that has not yet been answered.

(By contrast, another former Ontario Premier, Bob Rae, has always demonstrated a healthy self-awareness of his own artistic interests and abilities. He comfortably and competently plays piano in public from time to time, and speaks on arts issues with knowledge and depth. It should be noted that he does not display contempt for artists--neither does he express inner conflict over his own creative life and career.)

But, back to Stephen Harper, Failed Musician.

What was the other song he chose to sing? Just as revealing as the Lightfoot standard, it was George Harrison's "While My Guitar Gently Weeps".

"I look at you all, see the love that lies sleeping...
While my guitar gently weeps."

Harper admits that it's his son's interest in the guitar that has re-kindled his own interest in music. Yep, that would stir up those old dreams, for sure--dreams that Stephen's father (not a musician, but an expert on jazz) and his grandmother and uncle (both accomplished musicians) must have shared. Jung wrote "Nothing has a stronger influence psychologically on their environment, and especially on their children, than the unlived life of the parent." Is it possible that nothing has a stronger influence on a country than the unlived life of the politician?

If Harper's cuts to the arts are best understood by reading between the lines--the ledger lines, if you will--it's appropriate, then, to end this essay with the little-known final verse that George Harrison wrote but seldom sang. (You can bet that Stephen Harper didn't sing this one in the airport lounge.)

"I look from the wings at the play you are staging
While my guitar gently weeps...
As I'm sitting here doing nothing but aging
Still my guitar gently weeps."

Okay, Stephen. Stop weeping and feeling sorry for yourself. Stop feeling jealous of your son (who you say plays by ear, as you never could), and contemptuous of the professional artists who had enough courage to follow their artistic passions. Start practicing for your Grade 10 Conservatory exam. Write a poem about your father. Then write a song about work, about purpose, about dreams and disappointments.

Take a deep breath and play. Whether your hands are shaking, or not.

Play like an ordinary person.

Like an artist.

There's still time.

What I Learned From Writing a Song a Week

I'm coming to the end of a nearly two-year project, writing a new song most weeks for a current events program on community radio. Take5 has a "can-do" spirit and its executive producer was open to the idea of having a songwriter write something every week, inspired by a story on the show. Ultimately I wrote 69 songs for the program, before I felt an inner signal that it was time to move on. I have a special affection for all of those Songs of the Week (unexpected gifts, each and every one) and I'm grateful for the lessons I learned while writing them. Here are some of them.

1. If you can write one song a week, you can write a dozen. Creativity fuels itself, and there is no limit to how many ideas one can have in any period of time. The limitations we place on ourselves are arbitrary. In most cases the "song" of the week was actually two or three or four, sometimes different approaches to the same topic but sometimes new songs altogether. I just picked the one that I found the most inspiring.

2. Nothing lasts. The Japanese concept of wabi-sabi is: Nothing is perfect, nothing is finished, nothing lasts. As each song was written, each song immediately passed into "last week". The practice of letting go, week after week, was healthy. Even when a song garnered further attention, it only did so for a limited period of time, because I had to keep writing.

3. I am deeply and continually influenced by others. In writing a song a week, I was constantly aware of the work of other songwriters, but instead of letting that get in the way (through comparisons, jealousy or worry over plagiarism) I decided to consciously invite the other writers in, as if to help. So I felt I was guided by a lot of invisible, experienced hands.

4. Each song matters, and doesn't. You have to imagine it could change the world and have momentous impact, while being aware at the same time that it likely will not. This awareness of two apparent opposites allows one to write something that neither lacks substance nor gets bogged down in a sense of self-importance.

5. It's okay to work every which way. Use every and any tool or method you can to accomplish your goal. Don't get locked into pre-defined methods of working. What worked last week might not be appropriate for this week. Stay flexible.

6. It's not a competition. I have a tendency to rank stuff and pick winners and losers. I noticed the inclination to do this with the Song of the Week, and I saw that all that ranking didn't matter at all. I could let go of trying to pick the winning horse or predict which song might "go somewhere". None of them could, and all of them already had.

6. Honour the seed. No matter how "polished" or "finished" I wanted the songs to be, they stubbornly remained exactly what they were: fresh, small, fragile things...each of which held the potential to gain confidence and strength with repeated playings. If I had gotten caught up in perfection and full-fledged-ness at the start, I would have stopped the project after a few weeks, realizing that the timeframe and my own limitations would never permit polished, concert-level performance. I remember the point at which I realized that. I'm glad I decided to continue...to honour the seed. In life, there are many such seeds.

7. If you believe in it, it will come. The most valuable technique I used was the belief that the song was meant to be, and that it already existed...and only need my midwifery to bring it to the world. That outlook was, I think, just as important as a wide range of guitar chords, a taste for novelty, a good work ethic, a willingness to experiment and to potentially fail, and a lifelong fascination with songs and the creative process--all of which were essential too.

The 100 Mile Artist

Lately I've been thinking a lot about the 100-Mile Diet: eating locally to make a positive change for the planet. It's an important idea. I'm really excited about reducing the amount of time and money I spend in big chain grocery stores, and walking instead to a farmer's market where I can buy locally grown food.

It got me thinking: how can songwriters apply the principles of "think globally, eat locally" to our music life? Is there value in being a 100-Mile Artist and writing a 100-Mile Song?

I think there is, even though we live in the Internet Age. Our music is now available at the touch of a button, as conveniently as our food and more cheaply than ever before. We consume music like we consume food and other products and entertainment: voraciously, often without any personal connection to how or where it's made.

As songwriters who want to be successful by our culture's standards, we tend to think that our music has to travel far in order to matter. We need to tour widely, or at least be heard beyond our local communities, via radio or the Net. We tend to believe (sometimes it's an unconscious thing) that a non-touring local musician, especially one who hasn't recorded his or her work, is less important than one whose product is shipped a greater distance.

But if we actually start living as environmental leaders recommend, getting more of our food closer to home, and choosing to buy and consume less, we might also start to value local artists in new ways. Local songwriters might feel more empowered to write songs grown organically in a real time and place...and we might not feel badly anymore if those songs (or if we as individuals) don't travel so much.

This re-framing might encourage songwriters to respond in a more particular, specific way about what's going on in their neighbourhoods, and to consciously sing the songs for the people there. The aim of writing a great song would be not to have it recorded by a big Nashville star, but to help actual people, right here and now. That kind of song, like that kind of great-tasting organic food, is nourishing to the soul. If songs are like food, maybe we can grow our own.

Of course, for anyone to buy the song (locally or otherwise), it had better be GOOD! Nobody, anywhere, wants a song that has no melody or whose lyrics are meaningless. Nobody will enjoy a tasteless or bland song that's supposed to be good for you just because it's local. That's why it's essential that those of us who are 100-Mile Songwriters create truly high-quality songs: songs that are on par with the widely-distributed "hits" of our times. There's no reason the next "Imagine" (or "The Rose" or "Blowing in the Wind" or "Heart of Gold", or...) couldn't be written in your town. It's just that in our commercially-driven culture, it's unlikely to be recognized. It's time we got better at that recognition process.

First of all, we can start appreciating the ways that excellent locally-grown entertainment enriches us. We can take pride in it, and be appreciative and grateful for it, without immediately thinking it should be exported. Instead of hearing a great song and saying "Wow, you should get Celebrity So-and-So to sing that" or "you should get it promoted to radio" or "get it used in a movie", we could learn to say, "Your song helped me get through my day" or "I always feel good when I hear you play" or simply, "thank you". That's enough. That, and a fair price to hear that musician perform, and a fair amount to purchase his or her recording--which was produced on a sustainable budget.

[As I write this, the rest of my family is hungrily devouring the MMVA's...the Much Music Video Awards...which features many celebrity artists who are the equivalent of the Oreo cookies in our cupboard. I find I often crave them, too. We are products of our culture. But as the priorities of our culture change, in response to urgent environmental and social needs, local artists could become valuable sources of direction, hope and wisdom. May we grow the best food we can.]

Let's Applaud the Amateurs: Bill Ivey

I just read a piece in the Utne Reader that I'd like to share with you.

It's an interview with Bill Ivey , former chair of the National Endowment for the Arts in the United States, and the author of a book called Arts, Inc.: How Greed and Neglect have Destroyed our Cultural Rights.

In the article, Ivey comments on the failure of public policy, reflecting society as a whole, to recognize artists who are not considered professionals. He writes: "while we understand that amateur basketball players are not going to be as good as a superstar, there's no sense that they shouldn't be doing what they're doing. But in the arts...we tend to denigrate the amateur. The NEA participated in this by concentrating so much of its work on professionals: using the term excellence as a kind of euphemism for professional art-making, concentrating on elevating the top pros and the organizations that they work with, and pretty much leaving the amateur unincorporated art-making piece of the American scene off to the side."

Amateur artists are denigrated at times. We've all felt it, even those of us who have achieved some degree of professional success, because few of us achieve enough of it to make a dent in the cultural firmament. I think we do feel "off to the side" as Ivey says, in a kind of no-man's land where we feel neither fully professional nor contentedly amateur. To get out of that uncomfortable, anxiety-producing place, we spend a fair bit of time and money creating an image and a product that might put us on the map, all the while suspecting that no map, or straightforward success path for artists, exists.

One of the reasons I'm encouraged by Ivey's interview is that he suggests a change in perception is possible, and that it might come about through public policy. It's certainly not going to come through the commercial entertainment industry, which on the surface may appear to encourage amateurism through Idol and related reality programming, but in fact divides the world of artists into winners and losers: winner take all.

More good could be done by more artists, if we invested in ALL artists' sense of worth.

Discovery: Art of the Song

I've been tuning in recently to Art of the Song which is one of the best songwriting websites and blogs I've encountered. It offers a refreshing change of perspective from most songwriting sites...focusing not only on technique (though it covers that beautifully) but on motivation and purpose...the spiritual dimension of creativity. Author and creativity coach Eric Maisel is also a contributor to the site. If you're an artist of any kind, I recommend that you explore his work. He seems to have a uniquely insightful perspective on the challenges faced by creative people.

In a recent interview on Art of the Song, songwriter Tom Kimmel talks about seeing his work as a form of service. This is a refreshing idea for songwriters, who too frequently are focused on audience-building and attracting attention from the media and music industry. I appreciated hearing his thoughts as I started developing the idea of the 100-Mile Artist.

Songwriting and Biomimicry

I recently watched The 11th Hour Leonardo di Caprio’s documentary. In the special features section at the end, where possible solutions to the urgent problem of climate change are discussed, Janine Benyus, author of Biomimicry: Innovation Inspired by Nature spoke about the concept of biomimicry.

She writes: “Biomimicry (from bios, meaning life, and mimesis, meaning to imitate) is a new discipline that studies nature's best ideas and then imitates these designs and processes to solve human problems. Studying a leaf to invent a better solar cell is an example. I think of it as ‘innovation inspired by nature.’"

It occurred to me today that we can also use those principles to write better songs...in fact, I'm pretty sure it's something some of us do intuitively. It's nice to have a name for it.

Today, my challenge was to write two linked songs which would be played consecutively (kind of like Queen’s “We Will Rock You”/”We Are the Champions”). One of the songs had to do with a bridge, and they both had to do with the relationship between land, water and sky. That really got me going on the idea of interconnectedness.

I’ve always viewed song elements as a series of connected elements, forming patterns within a larger structure. This seems in line with biomimicry. The stronger the connections between the elements of the song, the stronger the whole thing will be. In turn, that stronger song will contribute to a stronger connection between human beings, while mirroring and celebrating the natural world we need to protect. That's the kind of song that can help sustain life.

In The 11th Hour, Janine Benyus suggests that to find solutions to the world’s problems, we might ask ourselves: “What would nature do?” She points out that Nature’s methods have often proven to be stronger and more beautiful than the high tech solutions human beings have come up with so far.

So, how can I apply the principles of biomimicry to songwriting? Here are a few ideas:

- Build a web of interconnected elements
- Seek balance and harmony
- Make efficient use of all materials (every note & word counts)
- Create patterns…and patterns within patterns.
- Don’t overcomplicate
- Encourage growth (development of melody, of ideas) within a sustainable structure
- Take your time.

Breaking in the Lyrics

The other day I took my 13 year-old son out to buy shoes. Before finding the perfect pair, he tried on another that was almost right.

"Maybe these just need breaking in," I wondered. So we put them on hold with the saleslady, planning to come back for them if we didn't find anything better.

After looking around at several stores, we finally found a better pair: one that fit right away.

Even though the first pair might have done in a pinch (literally) and the breaking in might have helped, they still might have felt uncomfortable. That's the way it is with lyrics too.

Sometimes I write a line that looks really pretty on paper, but I try to sing it and it's just not comfortable. I stumble over it no matter how many times I sing it. When that happens, I know I have to keep looking for the phrase that truly fits, and sometimes that process (like shopping) can be maddeningly time-consuming.

But it's worth it in the end.

(This morning, my song-of-the-week for "Take5" on CIUT 89.5 fm is a historical song--a challenging form for me--about an old railway hotel being turned into a homeless shelter. Two of the lyrics, in particular, required a lot of "shopping".) Here's how the song came out! The New Edwin Hotel .

What Good Can a Song Do?

A few weeks ago, I played at a community event organized by an environmental group. I played several original songs on "green" themes, including "Bicycle Bell" and "Wind of Change" . They were very well-received by the multigenerational crowd, who were eating locally-made organic food while waiting for a talk from a well-known environmentalist.

After the talk, I gave that well-known speaker a CD. I cringe as I write this, and I'll bet you do, too.

The contact was predictably awkward. My timing was poor, and I knew it. I also knew that I'd likely never get another chance for a face-to-face connection, and this is a person who genuinely inspires me--whose work is, I feel, essential in the world today.

In the past few years, my goal in writing songs has increasingly become "to motivate and inspire" in addition to "to entertain". I genuinely hope that my songs might "do some good" in the world by raising awareness of important issues, by illuminating the human challenges we face and ultimately helping us transcend those challenges. On a personal level, I find that the songs do help me get over my fear and inertia...they energize me and help me find meaning. They seem to help others too, which gives me more reason to keep writing and singing.

It all sounds pretty earnest, I suppose, and that may be one reason why I haven't exactly had a breakthrough in the entertainment business!

But back to back to that awkward CD handoff.

On the one hand, my intentions were good. I wanted to contribute what I could to the cause, and share work that had, in part, been inspired by the ideas of the keynote speaker and others like him. On the other hand, I have to admit I was hoping for some kind of endorsement or validation. And, I felt that such an endorsement might help increase my audience. Good for me, good for the world. Maybe.

Or maybe, despite the content of the songs, there's no getting around the fact that I'm just another obscure singer-songwriter desperately seeking attention. Thank you, entertainment industry, for creating that monster (which we happily feed and care for, with our dreams of celebrity success).

Anyway, yesterday I got an e-mail from the event organizer, wondering where she could send my honorarium. After a moment's pause, I decided to donate it back to the keynote speaker's organization.

There. I did some good.

Maybe I did a small but significant amount of good, too, when I sang for the assembled grandmothers and parents and toddlers, as they ate their organic samosas while waiting for the eco-celebrity.

Maybe, in the end, that's the most our songs can do.

They can keep us going...to do what needs to be done.

Creating "Simplicity"

Speaking to a friend on the phone the other day, I mentioned my new CD, "Simplicity".

He said, "Let me guess...just you and your guitar, right?"

Hmm...so much for suspense and intrigue.

But he went on to say that he's looking forward to hearing this new collection. He didn't say, "Really? That's weird" or "Risky move on your part".

He said, "That's great".

Simple.

A few months ago, before I knew I was going to release this bunch of songs as a new record, I sent six of the songs to a friend/fan of mine in England. He wrote back:

"I love the collection, and just like Ron Sexsmith they sound so much more intimate with just you and an acoustic."

Thanks, Mark.

It means a lot, because "Simplicity" is difficult. It's hard to let go of the band, the bed tracks, the tweaks, the endless fixes. It takes practice to call it a record.

"Simplicity" is unfamiliar territory for me...and at times it feels a little scary.

It's more about subtracting than adding. What can I live without? What can I not afford?

(I can't afford those imaginary policemen for one thing...so out they go!)

Still Minding the Gap

Back when I was writing about busking in the Toronto subways, I wrote a post called "Mind the Gap". It was about coming to terms with the difference between how I hoped to sound in my recordings and how I actually do...the difference between fantasy and reality.

Several years later, I'm still dancing with that gap. Just when I think I've achieved some new level of skill, something happens to remind me that I'm still learning and growing. That sounds like a good thing of course (we all want to learn and grow, don't we?) but in the moment it can be terribly uncomfortable. Self-acceptance is pleasant and natural when everything is going well, but when we fall short of our goals, it's not so easy.

A few days ago, I led a songwriting workshop with a group of high school students. I quoted Miles Davis who famously said "do not fear mistakes, there are none". And then, a few days later, when I made what I felt was a mistake as part of a creative project, I got completely stuck. I couldn't stop wishing things had gone differently, instead of focusing on right now and how to move forward gracefully.

Would the experience have gone differently if I had approached it with a spirit of playful experimentation instead of goal-directed perfectionism? Can I re-frame my attitude right now, viewing the results as unexpected new ideas rather than mistakes? Will a gentle acceptance of the ever-present "gap" help me pick up and move on? Often it seems that so much rests on our ability to get it exactly "right". Maybe those goals are less important than they seem.

The real prize is the growth we achieve when we stretch, simply as far as we can.

Happy New

January seems a good time to update the blog, doesn't it?

I'd like to do that without the heavy sense of "resolution" that's so often associated with New Year's.

Instead, I'd like to think of gentle, small steps...the space of a blank page...the relief of dropping off three bags of clothes and toys at Value Village tonight. That's the "happy new" for me...happy new openness...contented letting-go.

I'll write another song this week for "Take5" . It'll be my 50th song for the program this week! When I think of all those songs piling up, sometimes I feel regret that I can't somehow elevate them all or promote each one. When I'm in that frame of mind I feel claustrophobic, and no new songs come.

But when I feel free to let them go, one at a time, I find the creative space I need to write another one.

Creative Lift-Off

To write a good song, you need the kind of energy that comes with what I call “creative lift-off”. It’s the elevated forward motion that takes place when a song seems to be supported by something other than itself, in the same way that a plane naturally rises on a current of air once it’s reached a certain speed.

It’s possible to keep writing—even to complete a whole song—without creative lift-off. But just because it's possible doesn't mean it's ideal. Think of it this way: a plane speeding along the runway still goes forward, but it doesn’t go nearly as far, fast or high. The Wright Brothers weren’t trying to build an interesting new sort of car, they were trying to build a flying machine. That’s what we want too: a new thing that will seem to defy gravity…something that will travel a long way and be lofty and inspiring.

So, how do you know you’ve achieved creative lift-off? Watch for the moment when:

- You’re suddenly not comparing this song to any others, written by you or anybody else;
- You forget you’re “writing”;
- Magical-seeming, coincidental gifts fall into place in your lyrics;
- Your hand unconsciously goes to a new chord, and it’s the right one;
- You write something you didn’t know you knew how to write;
- You lose track of time;
- You can correct flaws easily, or ignore them comfortably;
- You have a knowing feeling that the song already exists, even though it’s not finished;
- You don’t have the frustrated feeling that something supposed to happen isn’t happening (as you would in a plane that never took off).

It’s a relief to notice creative lift-off when it happens. And, once it’s happened, we enjoy a sense of relaxation. It's as if the pilot turns off the seatbelt sign, and we're free to enjoy the creative ride.

Creative Abandon

I've been reading a lot of Pema Chodron lately, a spiritual teacher in the Buddhist Lojong tradition. She recommends using a number of simple slogans during everyday activities, to stay rooted in the present moment. Over the next couple of weeks, for an e-course I'm taking, I'll be working with the slogan "abandon all hope of fruition".

It's a useful slogan for anyone striving in the difficult career path of the arts.

Just yesterday, I found myself "hoping for fruition" as I sent a song to an influential music promoter. Although I told myself that I wasn't expecting a response, I was disappointed when I didn't receive a return email immediately. (Another Lojong slogan that is closely related is "Don't expect applause".)

Unconsciously, I also hope for fruition when I send an email out to my list of supporters and when I write a blog entry. What will people think, I wonder? Will they come out to the show? Will they think more highly of me? I often hold some expectation of result in my mind while I'm creating something new.

When I'm actually writing a song, the hope of fruition can be a real roadblock to success.

Thinking ahead, while writing, to the response of potential audiences diverts my attention from the song. If I think "ahah, this is going to be a masterpiece", I'm disappointed in myself and creatively blocked when, a few minutes later, it seems not to be fulfilling its potential. And if I think "oh no, this won't work for such-and-such audience or industry person" I start to fiddle with the song, worrying it into a mutant version of what it was originally meant to be.

In order to write something true, I have to honour my subject with my full attention.

When I simply let the song carry itself forward without all that weight on it, it generally comes out fine.

"Abandoning all hope of fruition" turns into "creative abandon", which is freeing and joyful.

Wanting Great, Getting Good

Each time I write a song, I want it to be better than the last one.

I imagine my growing body of work as being a steadily improving thing...a smooth ascending hill. But in fact, it's more like the jagged line that illustrates an investment in the stock market. One day it's up, the next it's down...but gradually, over time, the investment's value increases in a series of peaks and valleys. (And isn't artistic practice a lifelong investment?)

Each time that little line dips, I feel queasy. I'm disappointed when a new song doesn't "pay off" the way I want it to. Why didn't it? Was it the idea, the execution, the presentation? It seemed pretty good when I was writing it... Why isn't it lifting off? There's a note of fear there.

Although some analysis is useful, it's important for me to stop judging and let go. Simply let the work be--present it, let it breathe, and let it go--and know that it's serving its purpose in the bigger picture of my creative life. Trust the mystery.

I'll probably always want "great". Through that stretching, I'm developing as an artist. Many times, despite my best efforts, I'll just get "good". Although it seems like a disappointment at the time, it leaves room for growth, and reminds me to practice the art of self-acceptance.

I Don't Like Middles

This morning as I was working on a new song, I had the familiar urge to quit. It came at the usual point: after the initial excitement had waned, but before I could tell the song would be successfully completed.

It's always the middle period that's hard. Much like the middle of the day, too, I realize...as the clock says 2:56 and I'm tempted to stop writing now and go have a nap. Not to mention the middle of life, the middle of career...no wonder middles lead to crises.

Anyway, in this particular middle, I almost gave up on the song altogether. The song just didn't seem worth the effort. I saw it as unnecessarily complicated, challenging and serious. Oh, and the melody was terrible. These seemed to be perfectly valid concerns. Facts, even! So...

I ignored them and kept writing anyway.

There's a part of me that mistrusts the middle. It imagines that the creative process should be inspiration followed immediately by satisfaction. All magic, all joy, all the time! I avoid the middle at the beginning ("This song idea is brilliant! It will write itself!) , the middle ("This is too difficult. The song must be bad") and the end ("It was fun and easy to write such a great song!").

This time, I kept working during the middle, even though I wasn't enjoying myself and I didn't believe I was necessarily doing anything of value. I simply showed up and stayed put. To my surprise, only a few minutes later I saw that the song was nearly finished...and it was good!

It was good in the middle too. It was just not yet what I wanted it to become. It was still unformed...somewhat muddled...in the middle.

(Side note: did J.K. Rowling pull that brilliant name for humans, 'Muggles', out of a hat or what?!)

More on Chords

Also...

I think there's a longing to be part of a "chord"...a family or community...and that we naturally move toward that unity, even as we proudly define our separateness.

The deep satisfaction that comes from resonating with others, of creating a more powerful and resounding expression of life, is what keeps us returning to our relationships and adjusting ourselves.

We slip out of tune, but it's others that remind us that we're "out". And when we're aligned with others, we may notice that someone else has wandered off a little.

At those times, maybe we need to sound our note more clearly, so that others can hear us and use us to help them re-tune.

Chords

The whole is greater than the sum of its parts. That's one way to think about chords.

They're groups of notes that create a unified "something-else" when played together. For guitar players, chords are often the starting point of a lifelong musical journey. Once you learn an "A" chord, you're off and running. Just by itself, an A chord sounds like Something Important. And it's pretty easy to play too, by playing the notes E, A and C# together, as you arrange your fingers into a little ladder in the middle of the neck of the guitar. (I'm naming the notes here just for fun, but you don't have to know what the notes are called to play them.) Once you've learned "A" ("Square Ladder in Middle of 2nd Fret") you put your fingers in a different shape to make another chord ("Ascending Hill Shape on 3 Frets"...that's a "C")...and so on, and so on.

Chords have solidity and weight and presence. Played under a melody, they create a foundation that supports the whole piece.

I like to think of my family as a chord, each note complementing the other and forming a unit. My family of origin is another chord; related, but distinct. Other groups come to mind too: my husband's group of buddies from university, my friend's consistent group of exercisers at her fitness class. They both talk about these groups with a sense of pride and comfort. They know that they're balanced and complimentary groups that will endure and support them as their lives proceed.

When one note is out-of-tune, the whole chord suffers. Guitars often go out-of-tune, and sometimes you find yourself realizing in the middle of a song that something's not quite right about a certain note. You can play the chord anyway, and it might sound "close enough", but really it's not. That out-of-tune note makes a big difference. To correct the tuning, we compare it to the others, to bring the relationships into balance with each other. Sometimes a note is a little too close to another...other times it's too far apart. Chords are created by the distance between notes.

Sometimes the note doesn't belong in the chord at all, much like the Sesame Street song "One of these things is not like the others". How unlike can we be from each other to still fit within a group? When is it necessary to adjust ourselves to bring our relationships into harmony, and when do we say, this note just isn't right for this chord?

Yesterday I was fooling around on the guitar when I found a new note combination that at first sounded too weird, too dissonant to my ear. But I remembered what our children's music teacher said the other day: sometimes when you insert a wrong-sounding note into a chord, just hang out with it awhile. Play it several times and experiment with new notes around it. After several minutes of playing with the new "ugly" chord, I found that it sounded pleasing. The new chord isn't exactly pretty, but it's useful and intriguing, and it's strong enough to become the heart of a new song.